


Flet

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [26]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Gigolas Week, M/M, PWP, elves like trees, first time in a tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elves of Ithilien are starting to make it feel more like home - but a certain dwarf is not happy about this.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flet

**Author's Note:**

> well, its kind of a first time? and its gigolas week, although I don't tumblr.  
> but - mainly its just something I wrote because it helps with the long difficult stories. and - someone said more of legolas' fantasies...........  
> as ever, makes a bit more sense if you've read the others, but shouldn't matter much. possibly I should make them a series?

Oh Fuck.  
No.  
No fucking way.

I look at him.  
“What?” he says, innocently, “Gimli-nin, you know I am,” he has the grace to blush at the undeserved title, “lord of this colony. This is the flet my elves have built for me – us. You – you know I am a wood-elf. What were you expecting?”

He does have a point. But – I am not about to admit it. I am not climbing up a bloody rope-ladder, to sleep on a bloody wooden platform high up in a bloody tree. No. We are not being chased by orcs, there is no need. 

I don’t need to say any of it, I just look.

“Gimli, melethron-nin, my elves have built this. If you wanted to supervise everything, maybe we should have come here before your caves, stayed longer last time – you should have said.”

Last time we were here it was all still a bloody campsite. I don’t know how wood-elves live. He has not taken me to his father’s court.

I look. I fold my arms.

“Please, Gimli-meleth?” oh, fuck, now it’s the puppy-dog eyes. 

Hopefully he is running out of arguments. 

I look.

He sighs, and looks at the ground, tracing a shape with his foot. I suspect he knows bloody well the way it draws my eye to his leg, to his hip, and then to his arse. Not as green as his name, not anymore. He looks up under his lashes at me,

“Really no?”

I shake my head.

He sighs, and, the only word is, pouts, showing me his lovely mouth,

“Then I shall have to ask Caradhil to reverie with me this night. Even if I cannot comb with him.”

What? What the fuck? But before I can even begin to utter a word, 

“Oh, no, my prince,” the joy of a colony of sharp-eared elves, no such thing as a private row, “oh no. I am not being drawn into this. I will serve you in many things, but no. I am not going to be used to make your dwarf-lord jealous. I value my ears.”

And I cannot help but grin, as I meet Caradhil’s laughing gaze.

“I have spoken much with your cousin,” he adds.

I snort. “Do not believe all that he says. But – do not reverie with my elf.”

He shakes his head, smiles, turns and walks away, somehow taking the others with him. 

Leaving us to look at each other. 

My sweet elf sinks to the ground, and sits dejectedly. Now what? I have said no. And I meant it. Deal with it, elf, I think. I love you, but – no. Because if I give in now, it will be half my bloody life up in that fucking tree.

But – I don’t want to upset him. So I sit beside him, take his hand, and wait.

“You shame me,” he says, so quietly, I don’t at first make out the words.

“What?”

“You shame me. My elves have built this, for us. Look. It is – they have tried to make it so you will feel comfortable. It is strong, it has a rail, the ladder comes much closer to the ground than is usual.” He pauses, and I look. He is right. They – or probably Caradhil – have thought, they have tried. But – no.

“I do not shame you. Daft sodding elf. How is it shaming that I do not wish to sleep in a fucking tree? I am a dwarf. They know this.”

“Yes.” He is still looking down, looking at our hands, tracing over mine with his long beautiful fingers. “Yes, and they know I have been in your caves for many months. So what does that make me – if I will follow you, but you will not follow me?”

I shrug, “kinder? Braver? Possibly I shame myself, but not you.”

Now it is his turn to shrug,

“You think so? But if I love you, if I follow you – and you will not do the same – for whatever reason – it is I that am shamed.” He sighs, “you – you will not – there is nothing that will persuade you?”

I shake my head.

“No. Unless it was for your life, no.”

There is silence but for his quiet song – sad now. This really matters, I have no idea why. Bloody elves. 

Time passes, and it is peaceful enough sitting here. Quite nice really. Sunshine, leaves, birds, elf-singing. 

Singing has picked up a bit. 

Good.

He looks up at me, makes a resigned little face, and says,

“Oh well. What is one more shaming?”

I feel bad. But – no.

He rises fluidly, and, keeping hold of my hand, pulls me to my feet, taking advantage of my closeness to say,

“It is a shame. Because it was not the stiff neck of my dwarf I was thinking of, when I pictured this flet.” He holds my eyes and raising one brow, runs his tongue slowly, so slowly, around his lips, holding a perfect ‘oh’. 

Oh.

He lets go of me, and turns away, saying over his shoulder,

“I daresay there will be room for us to sleep in the main feasting hall, as many do.”

What?

Is he saying, that it is this bloody tree or – wait until we leave here? In – I don’t remember how many months – time? 

Fuck.

Or not.

Devious bloody elf.

I sigh dramatically.

“Alright, you daft creature. If it matters that much. I will sleep in your bloody tree,” so long as I get to do more than sleep, “but – you are no Greenleaf. You had best rename yourself, Caradhlas.”

Immediately, he is laughing and in my arms, kissing me as though he had not seen me for a month,

“Ah, Gimli-nin, melethron-nin, meleth, meleth-nin, I will make it worth your while. I promise you.”

“See that you do,” I say, thinking – you already have. The joy on his face – I did not realise it was so important. I stroke his ears, and as he shivers, clinging to me, I wonder what I was about, being so unkind.

 

 

Reaching the bloody platform, I find that someone – again, I suspect Caradhil, that elf is too clever for his own good – has ensured there are rugs and cushions aplenty – enough even for this dwarf to feel comfortable. And both ale and wine – definitely Caradhil’s hand in this. I suppose he is trying to be helpful.

Hmm.

Actually, it is not as unpleasant up here as I thought. The rail is high enough that I need not fear rolling off. There is still the sun, the birdsong, the leaves, and the song of my elf. My very happy elf. 

He pulls me down to lie beside him, and I think he is going to want to comb, or somesuch. 

But no. 

“I told you I would make it worth your while,” he whispers, “I have not time now for all I would do, I have not the starlight I would love you under, but – as a token of things to come – “ he kisses me, and for once, I let him take charge. I let his tongue tease me, and oh my elf, you are good at this. 

He pushes me onto my back, and his hands are undoing me, stroking at my cock – and I need little encouragement, not with his tongue in my mouth, his weight on me, his hair falling over my face. I run my hands over him, and oh fuck he feels good, the tightness of him, the muscle under my hands. He whimpers into me, and I know he is as keen as I am. But – this is his bloody tree, he can do the work. All I do is hold him to me, and after a while, he pulls back for breath, and I love seeing my elf breathing so hard, so desperate,

“I love you,” he says, “I would please you – yes?” and he holds my eyes as he moves down between my legs and takes me in his mouth.

“Yes. Oh fuck, Legolas, yes,” I say. And I reach down to hold his hair, to dig my fingers in, stroking my thumbs over his ears, as I know he likes. Not to guide him, not now – he needs no guidance, he knows what I want. I want this, my elf, sucking and licking at me, one hand holds my hip, one hand is stroking my cock in time with the movement of his own hips, and oh fuck that is good, to see him loving this is even better than the feel of it. I clutch at his hair, pulling it almost, rough on his ears and he begins to make those little moaning sounds that tell me he cannot get enough. His eyes are still locked on mine, and I can see the pupils dilated, so needy, so hot, and his tongue, oh Mahal, the things he is doing with his tongue.

“Fuck that’s good,” I say, “oh Legolas, don’t fucking stop, please don’t stop,” for he has pulled away from my cock, and I am desperate for more, I want to come in his pretty mouth, “elf, please.”

He looks up at me, so mock-innocent, and makes a question with his eyes, 

“More? Or – my poor dwarf, would you rather leave ‘this bloody tree’?”

I groan, “Stop teasing, you know what I want, fuck, Legolas, come on.”

He licks his pretty lips, he must feel how my hips jerk in response, and says,

“Really? Sure you are happy here?” and when I cannot answer in words, only another plea and pull at his hair, “I suppose I must believe you. Tell me what you want then, tell me I am pleasing you.”

“You know,” I manage to grind out, “you know what I want, you know you please me. Just don’t sodding stop.”

And suddenly I realise he is blushing, his ears under my hands are deep red, his whole face pinking, he can no longer meet my eyes as he says,

“but I would hear you say it. Please. I – I am an elf. I need more words from you.”

Oh. I had not thought of that. That is interesting.

“I want you to carry on exactly as you were,” I say, stroking gently at his ears, “I want you to stop talking, and use your pretty mouth to some purpose. Take my cock in your mouth and suck and lick at me, use your hand, oh elf please.” He does, and I can feel he is enjoying this, so I carry on talking – not very eloquently perhaps, but – I am a dwarf, and I have not considered this before.

“I want to come in your mouth,” I say, and his eyes meet mine, and I can see the response I am hoping for in them, “I want to watch you swallow and lick me clean. I am going to keep hold of your hair, keep you where you are. Not going to let go until I am satisfied. Going to keep stroking your ears, want to hear those sounds. Moan for me, whimper your need while I fuck your pretty mouth, my love, my elf.” I pause to listen, and yes, he is, oh fuck he is so close, and he sounds so good it brings me closer than I already was, “Oh fuck Legolas, keep on like that, you are so good at this. None could please me more than you, I love you, keep sucking me, lick me, oh fuck, you are loving this, and that is so good. I – I am not going to ever let you go. You are mine. Keep right on with that, oh fuck, yes.” I am not sure how much longer I can last, and his moans are getting more desperate, I flick at his ear-tips, I know how he loves that, and I am rewarded with a lovely note – bloody elf, I think, distracted for a second, tuneful at this moment – but he is still busy and, “yes, yes, sing for me, fuck, Legolas, going to come, going to come in your mouth, oh fuck, oh my elf, my love.” And my words trail into a groan, but I don’t think he minds. I can see, I can watch him, and for all that this was supposed to be my pleasure, for all that that was fantastic, he looks just as pleasured as he laps at me, shuddering as I keep my hands gripping him, holding him down. 

I stroke his ears again, gently, feeling him relax, and I run my hands through his hair, settling it back, tidying him. He stays where he is for longer than I expect, and I say,

“Come here, love, want to hold you.”

He crawls up me, and it occurs to me to wonder if he has a change of leggings up here – otherwise I suppose I will have to get him some. He can hardly walk among those bloody elves like this. He tucks his head under my chin, almost as usual, but not quite.

“What is wrong, love? I – I am sorry. I did not know the flet mattered so.” I wait for a moment, then, “come on, daft elf, what is the trouble?”

He is so hesitant, I wonder what on earth I have done now, but no, it seems that is not it, 

“I – I did not know how much I wanted that,” he says, “I – I feel – I – I am shamed.”

I have no bloody idea what he means.

“You didn’t know you wanted what? A good fuck? To go down on me? Why would that shame you?” bloody elf, I think, I still don’t understand him – but at least now, I know to ask.

He is clearly mortified about something.

“I – I mean – the – you talking. I – I knew I wanted it, I – you have talked before, but – but that was so – so good.”

I smile into his hair. 

“It’s alright to like games. Come on, love, you know. We had this worry before. I am not going to be cross with you. No one else need ever know.” I hope. I am assuming those bloody elves are out of ear-shot – or if they are not, I think I can trust Caradhil to keep them from embarrassing my poor love. 

He nods, and I know he is not really convinced. I feel guilty – I should have realised he would like that, I should not have made him ask, he hates having to ask. But – I did not guess. I have only used words to calm him before, I had not thought speech would rouse him so. As he said, he is an elf. I should have guessed.

“Anyway,” I say, “are we staying up here, or do I have to go down that bloody ladder again? You said something about more time later – do you have plans?” 

And he is distracted.

“Yes, you do have to go down the ladder if you want to eat tonight. I had best change,” he flushes again, “and then we had best go to dinner – and Caradhil will tell you all he needs me to do while we are here,” yes, too clever by half that one, “and then – then we shall come back here. And, melethron-nin, there will be stars.”

Oh Mahal. Stars. 

Although – there is a glint in his eye again, and I wonder what he plans. Not, I think, just a hymn of praise.

 

 

And knowing he has plans, dinner seems longer than ever before. Caradhil’s list of things it is necessary for me to ensure my elf does while we are here seems longer and more sodding dull than usual. He has spent too much time with my cousin. Why, I wonder, is it me that needs to know – why cannot he simply go to his prince direct?

“Because, my lord,” he answers when I put this to him, “my prince is distracted. Permanently. Have you really not noticed? He is an elf in love, he thinks of nothing else.” he shrugs, “it is how elves are. Wood-elves. I know little of other sorts. But you – I think dwarves are never able to forget their work. So your cousin tells me, so I enlist you.” He wrinkles his nose, and I recognise the gesture, and am amazed how bloody different it is when he does it. On my elf, it is sweet, and I can be persuaded to anything – on Caradhil, it is clearly a sign of frustration, of great anger. “I am not the prince. For all I do the work, take the time, make the plans – I cannot do everything, I have not his name. I am not Thranduilion.”

I nod. I understand this. I have indeed noticed my daft elf has little inclination for work – but I thought that was just bloody elves. I suppose not. You do not rule a kingdom for an entire age of the world without work.

Not that I would know. I have not seen his father’s kingdom.

Caradhil is, as I have said, too fucking clever by half. As the evening wears on, he turns again to me, and although I enjoy watching my love dance, I am still thinking of those other plans, so I am slow to understand when,

“I think it is time for a drinking game. With wine. Not for any dwarf – or any prince. I will start it, and then,” he raises his brows, “none will question our lords’ departing so early.” And I think if he were not an elf, he would wink.

 

 

So once more we are up on this bloody platform. And we are lying together, and I am waiting to find out what these plans are.

“It is not cold,” my love says, fingers busy, “I do not think you need all these clothes. I – I would have you before my eyes. All of you. Please?”

I look meekly up at him, “the lord of Ithilien can do as he pleases, I think.”

That was not the right answer. He looks confused. I take pity on him.

“Daft elf. I would have you naked too. In fact, I would have you. It has been too long. Hours.”

Those ears are flushed, and he leans to kiss me. I run my hands over him, and feel him respond, taste his whimper as he cries out with need into me. But he pulls back,

“No. No, Gimli-nin, please. I – I – please. Slower. Comb first? Please. I – I have never loved under the stars, never in a tree. Please. I – I find I know how this should be?”

Oh. 

I suppose this is some big deal to him. 

Stars. Trees.

Actually I am pretty fucking sure we have had a roll in the leaves before now. But – perhaps it doesn’t count if there were no words of love? Or because there was a fire? Or because we were on the ground like sensible people, not in a fucking tree?

Bloody elves.

Daft sodding elf.

Good thing I love him, isn’t it?

“I told you,” I say, “the lord of Ithilien can do as he pleases. In fact, perhaps the lord of Ithilien had best be in charge tonight. I will do as I am told.” He still looks a bit doubtful about this, so I add, “a game? It is alright, love, I am not expecting you to tie me up.” And at the horror on his face, I cannot resist adding, “unless you want to? – No? – What then, love? Combing?”

And yes, combing. 

Bloody combing. For hours, it feels like. 

And yes, it is nice, and I do love him, and I do love his hair, and he clearly gets a lot out of this, and when he combs me, it does feel good. But – oh fuck, Legolas – I still would rather this as an afterthought, or a short session. 

Good thing we had our afternoon delight, I think, or I would be going mad.

At last he has had enough, at last he is feeling sufficiently bloody elved-up (or whatever you call it).

“I love you,” he says again, “Gimli, please, lie back. Let me look at you. Let me touch you. I – I want to trace your inkings again under the stars. I – please?”

I am not about to refuse. 

Oh sweet Mahal, he is beautiful when he kneels up like this in the starlight. The smoothness of him, the glint of gold in his hair, even under the stars it is not dimmed. Fuck. How can I complain about anything this creature wishes – if he wants me, I am rich beyond measure.

He runs his hands over me, as he said, tracing my inkings, and I wish there were more, it feels so good. He must know I am hard, I have been hard for hours now – and dwarf though I am – it hurts. I want him so bad. 

“Fuck, Legolas,” I say, “please? You are driving me out of my mind.” I am reaching for him, but he manages to keep himself out of my hands, still stroking over my chest and arms.

“Ah, but I thought you said I was in charge tonight? And I am an elf. I am patient.” I did say that. Fuck. I wonder why? What was I thinking? 

“Well, I am not, I am a dwarf as you very well know, and I am not patient. I am desperate to fuck you.” But he begins to lick gently along the dark lines on one arm, curling his tongue as though the taste is better than anything, still stroking my other arm with his hand – he knows my body so well, he can trace the marks without looking – and I am losing my ability to speak.

He looks up at me from where he is kneeling, and the look in his eyes takes me straight back to the afternoon, to his mouth on my cock, and I gasp, feeling my hips move in need.

He smiles, slowly, and shifts to kneel astride me, his hands on my forearms, holding me down, his tongue working over my chest. And now his hair is loose, his beautiful hair, stroking over me, it feels like the finest silk on my skin. All the while, there is this singing, well, humming perhaps, this wordless stream of notes, telling me his mood, his love, his pleasure. Again, that upward glance, that wicked glint, and I groan more urgently,

“Oh Mahal, Legolas, please. You are torturing me.”

He blinks so slowly, “oh, my love, patience.” And slowly, slowly he moves downward. But no, now his tongue is on my thighs, which is not what I want at all, and, “if I let go your arms, can I trust you to stay still?” he asks.

“I think so,” I say. “But – oh fuck – how much longer? I need you so.”

“A while,” he smiles at me, “lord of my heart, I do not wish to have to tie you – please, lie still for me, I will please you, trust me.”

Oh, he’s thinking about it now. That is interesting. Not so horrified now, not at all.

But tonight – tonight I will lie still. I dig my fingers into these rugs, and resolve to hold on.

So now, now the sweet torment continues. His hands tracing down my body, his hair brushing over me, his mouth working down my legs.

“So beautiful, so beautiful,” he says, “oh my love, my lord, my One, I could look at you for hours.”

“I would rather you waited until I am sleeping,” I say, still gripping, still holding onto my resolve.

He smiles again, “perhaps I will then. I love you so. I would have you this night, I would have you in me. I would love you here under the stars, with the leaf shadow patterns on your skin. Yes?”

“Yes, whatever you want. I said – you are in charge,” I hesitate, then, “but – is that truly what you wish? I thought – do you not want to fuck me?” Not that he often does. But – I assumed that was the point of all this. Not that I am in need of persuading – I love him, I would let him more often than he seems to want. 

Oh sweet elf, he is blushing again.

“I – Gimli, - I would have this slow tonight, and – I can never be slow. You – it is so much. I – I lose control. Please?”

“Whatever you want, I said.” Interesting, I think, very interesting. “But – I cannot promise to be slow. I have been waiting and watching you for so bloody long.”

He smiles again, in that bloody elf-inscrutable way, and reaches for the oil – it occurs to me to wonder if he put that there – or please Mahal, no, tell me bloody Caradhil did not think of this as well. I decide not to ask, I have to look that elf in the face tomorrow.

But – right now, my elf is busy. His slick clever hands are touching me, and perhaps actually thinking about something else is a good idea – he said he wanted slow. And right now, his hands feel so good, that slow is not likely.

Think about Caradhil. Smug. Annoying. Plotting with my cousin.

Not working. I don’t care. He can do what he likes – all I can think is it gives me more time with my elf. Oh fuck, my elf has finished with me, it seems, and now, oh fuck. A floorshow. He is leaning back, and I can watch, oh Legolas, I can watch him touch himself, prepare himself, and oh sweet fuck, I am breathing so hard, I am desperate.

He looks at me and meets my eyes, his pupils blown with lust, and I can hear the need in the song which even now, breathless as he is, he cannot help but voice.

“Yes?” he asks, and all I can manage is,

“Oh fuck, please, yes, want you so Legolas.”

But that, it seems, is enough, and he is astride me, guiding my cock into him. And oh, he is so hot, so tight, so good, and I need, I need, but, 

“No, no, not to move,” he is gasping, “slow, let me, please,” so once more I am gripping these rugs, not letting myself take hold of his hips, move him as I long to do. I must not, I will not, thrust up into him. I make myself lie still, feeling his movement, feeling his slow, careful rhythm as he tightens round me, takes me further in and then rises, over and over again. Each time a little further, but not enough, oh fuck, please more. But I know, if I ask he will do as I wish – and I said he was in charge. So I clamp my lips shut, I do not ask, I watch – and oh elf, that is good. At last, at last, I am fully in him, as deep as I can go, and oh by the look on his face it feels as good to him as it does to me.

And now – now he is leaning back, and – fuck me – bloody elf – he is only singing to the stars. But – oh – this song is slow. And rhythmical, and oh, he is moving, circling his hips.

“Fuck, Legolas, that is good,” I say, wondering how he knows to do these things, “don’t stop, oh elf, I love you so.”

His eyes meet mine, and I see something like triumph in them, 

“Worth the ladder? Worth the bloody tree?” he asks, and I don’t know how he can talk like that at this moment,

“Yes, yes, alright, worth it. Worth anything. Just don’t stop.”

And he smiles, and oh I love him so, the world lights up when he smiles,

“Not going to stop, not going to stop my love, want to see you come for me, want to feel you come,” but I know him, and I know what I need,

“Can’t,” I say, and before he can panic, “need to see your pleasure first. Oh my elf, you know how I love you, I need to see you undone, need to feel you clench round me, I need to hear your screams, please love, please, ride me for your pleasure, show me, let me.”

And I see his eyes close for a moment, I see his head go back, and yes, now he is moving hard, taking no more thought for me, and I do not need it. All I need is to watch him, feel his hands gripping me as he moves, and oh he is pushing himself hard down onto me, rocking himself to get that feeling, and oh he is so tight, so tight around me. He is whimpering now, so close, so close, and I cannot stop myself – I reach out, and take his cock, stroking it as I know he likes, and I hear him gasp. I let myself move, let myself thrust up to meet him, hard as I can, and oh I am rewarded as he cries out my name, and words are pouring out of him, words I love to hear, his beautiful voice calling on me to love him, hold him, never leave him as he comes in my hand. I feel the tightness clenching round me, and the movement, the words, the love and need in his voice, all of it conspires against my longing to outlast him, and I am coming inside him, deep, deep within my elf.

I lie back, exhausted, and he collapses, boneless, onto me, and I hold him so tight, so close.

“I love you,” he says, as he always does.

“I know. Love you too, my elf,” I answer, as I know he wants, needs. 

“Sorry,” he adds, and I look down at him, puzzled.

“What, in Durin’s name, can you possibly think you need apologise for?” I ask, wondering what I have done now.

“I – I probably could have found us somewhere else to sleep, private. I just – I so wanted this.”

I laugh, “Well, I will forgive you. It is not so bad. I think my opinion of flets is improved much by sharing only with you – no bickering Men, and no bloody Galadhrim sneaking around underneath, making comments about dwarves.”

He smiles against me, but before he can speak, I add,

“At least your bloody silvans have the grace to pretend they are minding their own business.” 

I am not stupid. I know they are within earshot. 

And – I don’t fucking care.

I have my elf, right here, in my arms. 

All is right in my world.


End file.
